An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [96]
"I'd say he doesn't sound like a real person," the Writer-in-Residence said.
"He doesn't?" I asked. Oh, that hurt! Just the day before, Lees Ardor had told me she wanted to be a real person, and now I knew exactly what she meant. I would have given anything, right then, not to have told my story. I would have given anything to go back in time, before I'd told my story, and get Lees Ardor and bring her here so we could have sat there together and listened to the Writer-in-Residence tell us what a real person was.
"He doesn't sound like a real person at all," the Writer-in-Residence said. "He sounds like a cheap trick. No cheap tricks."
"No cheap tricks," I repeated. I fell back into my chair, hard, and I bet the folding chair would have folded with the impact except it had heard what had happened and felt pity.
"No tricks at all," the Writer-in-Residence said, and then he took another swig of his bourbon.
At that moment the Director stood up, walked toward the podium, and started waving his hands and arms over his head, as though he were shipwrecked and trying to get the attention of a plane flying overhead. "I believe that's all the time we have," he said, and then he announced that the Writer-in-Residence would be happy to sign books. This announcement caused a mad rush toward the front of the room. I sat in my seat, with my head hanging between my knees, in the crash position. Except I had already crashed and the position was taken too late. Peter was sitting next to me ― I could hear the angry in-and-out of his breathing ― but other than him, I felt completely alone. Even my mother's spirit had left me, as though it had, like the Connecticut Yankee, time-warped out of my body and this place and back into its own.
I don't know how long we sat there like that: it could have been a minute, it could have been an hour. Finally Peter grabbed the back of my (his) jacket and pulled me backward. I refused to look at him, so he had to grab my chin and turn my head and attention in his direction. Peter was angry, that was clear. I assumed he was angry at me: not only had I made a fool of myself, but by telling my story I'd probably drawn some unwanted attention to myself, and to him and his letter, and to what he wanted me to do. I hung my head again, in shame; and again he put his hand to my chin and raised it up, but gently, surprisingly gently.
"You understand now why I hate that guy?"
"I do," I said. Because I thought I did.
"OK?" Peter asked, then shrugged. I knew he was asking me if I'd burn the house down for him, for free; I knew that. I had no intention of doing what he wanted, but ― and this is just one of the many things of which I'm ashamed ― I was so grateful that he wasn't angry that I decided to play along, playing along being the thing we do when it's too difficult to do its opposite and just tell the truth.
"OK," I said.
"Good," he said. "Let's go."
"Where to?"
"The bar," Peter said.
"Good idea," I said. We got up and left the house, but before I did, I glanced back at the Writer-in-Residence. He was still sitting in his chair, still drinking his Beam. There was still a long line of people holding books for him to sign. The Director was still hovering over him for God knows what reason. But the Writer-in-Residence wasn't looking at the Director or his audience or their copies of his books. No, he was looking at us, longingly, as we walked out the door, and who knows: maybe he was thinking that we were real people after all.
18
The bar was a gray cinder block rancher with a black plywood entrance on the front and not to the side as on Peter's trailer. But they were from the same lowborn family of buildings. There were neon beer lights in the windows, and around the windows were flickering Christmas lights, but the lights were fighting a losing battle; half of them were out and dead. They'd probably been left up all year. There was no sign